Be Here
by DaVinci13
Summary: GS. Grissom shows up at Sara's apartment and it takes her a while to find out what's really bothering him.


A/N: So, I don't particularly like Michael Jackson, but I love his song _Will You Be There, _so that's kind of the basic inspiration for this story.

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI – obviously. Who do you take me for?

Be Here

It had been raining hard since six that morning. The water poured down in torrents, flattening any unfortunate creature that stood in its way. It rushed down the main streets and side streets in rivers that ended in lakes in the parking lots and next to sidewalks.

The normally hot Las Vegas atmosphere was cold, emphasized by the harsh wind that whipped through the trees. It blew old newspapers through the streets, tore the leaves from the trees, and forced people who had to be out and about to hold tight to coats and umbrellas. In the middle of the day it was dark enough to be the middle of the night.

Sara, sitting curled on her couch, listened as her windows were violently battered by the gale outside. Remembering the last time it had rained this hard, she gave a small shudder. Her shift had been finished for a few hours and there was no way she wanted to go back out in that weather to try and deal with another dead body stuck in a ditch. She was comfortable and warm right where she was, thank you very much, and she wanted it to stay that way.

Ever since her world had spun out of control – first with the drinking, and then the night shift being split up, and Nick being kidnapped – she had come to cherish the times when she could just sit at home, reading, and be warm and cozy and safe. It was good to sit inside on a rainy day and listen to the sounds outside.

Her ears tuning in to the pounding on her window pane again, she smiled and shook her head.

"Probably drown out there," she muttered to herself. Then she turned her attention back to her novel. The book itself wasn't all that interesting, but she had forced herself to read it because it was part of a series she was making her way through; it just wouldn't do to read the rest of them and leave one out.

She had just gotten back into it when suddenly someone knocked on her door, and she glanced up in irritation.

"Ah, come on!"

She moved slowly, feeling slightly lethargic from the cozy warmth of the apartment and the blankets wrapped around her, and the knocking came again, persistent yet not overly impatient.

"I'm coming!" she called. Sliding back the deadbolt, she opened the door and blinked in surprise. "Grissom."

He was drenched from head to toe, his clothes clinging to his body and leaving a wet puddle at his feet. His curls were plastered to his head, and water dripped into his eyes and down his face, making it appear almost as though he had been crying. He looked exhausted; alone and lonely. The sight made her stomach clench, and she swallowed hard as he continued to merely look at her silently. Not wanting to be caught staring, she glanced down, and raised an eyebrow. There was already a dark patch on the hall carpet, and even as she watched it spread farther outwards, sneaking towards her apartment. He really was thoroughly soaked.

"Uh, do you want to come in?" she questioned, when it appeared that he wasn't going to say anything, or give her a clue as to why he was here. Not knowing exactly what to say, she gave voice to the first comment that came to mind. As it was, he would probably want to come in anyways, because there had to be a reason he was here in the middle of the day, when they both should have been sleeping.

Stepping through the door, he once again stood perfectly still, completely silent, and stared at her.

She tried not to frown. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Do you want something to drink?" she blurted, trying to think of another way to break the silence. Again, she merely repeated the first thing that came to mind. Luckily, he answered, though his voice was so soft she almost didn't catch what he had said.

"Yes."

"I have water; juice; wine; beer."

She winced as she said the last; wished she hadn't mentioned alcohol. But he didn't appear to notice, let alone care, and at his indication that a beer would be fine she obliged without comment. As he took a sip, she studied him silently. Something was off.

Her first clue: the fact that he was here in the first place. He only ever came here when something had happened that needed to be dealt with immediately. Anything like that was inevitably nothing good.

Her second clue: he had barely spoken a word since he had arrived. If he was here because of something to do with work he would have spoken immediately, to get this out of the way as fast as possible. If he was here about the non-existent _them,_ he would have stood open-mouthed as he searched for something conversational to say. Neither was the case here. He was merely not speaking. There appeared to be no discomfort about it; on his part, anyways.

And that brought her to clue number three: the look on his face. She had seen him look exhausted before, after long, trying cases, and even pained once or twice, but never like this. His whole body seemed to have deflated; shrunk; as though he were being pressed down by the weight of the world on his shoulders. The exhaustion etched into his face was accompanied by a look of uncaring defeat. It was as though he had given in, though what he might have yielded to she could only guess.

"Are we friends?"

His first words since his arrival caught her off guard, and for a few minutes she only blinked at him. Her mind screamed at her, telling her that if she didn't answer soon he would become flustered and leave without giving her a chance to answer. But he defied her thoughts; as she struggled for an answer, he merely stood, worn out and blank. It was unnerving - the blankness. She was used to his masks, and his disguises, but those walls were contrived; this was just there, and she had a feeling he was powerless to lift it.

"I… I like to think we are," she finally responded, pleased that she didn't stutter too much.

There was another long silence, and she felt compelled to fill it as her mind worked furiously in an attempt to figure out just what he was doing here. "Aren't we? We work together; we talk. We…"

"We don't talk."

She squinted at him; thought maybe she should get herself a drink. She might need it to get through this. "Well, yeah. We talk about work. We…"

"Not about the important things. Do you know about Nick's sisters, and his family?"

"Yeah, but everyone does," she pointed out.

He blinked at her. "I don't."

She tried to shrug it off, and gave him a smile. "So you haven't gone out for drinks with him like I have."

"Why haven't I?"

"Uh…" she shrugged again, and shook her head in confusion. "I don't know, Grissom, maybe you don't want to? How should I know? I've never been inside your head." _Though God knows I've tried._

Her words seemed to strike him in some way, and he became animated suddenly, abandoning his beer on the counter as he began to pace around her apartment, leaving tracks and puddles everywhere he went.

"Strengths… weaknesses… how can you be strong and weak at the same time?"

What the hell?

"Grissom listen," she interrupted, "What's going on? Are you ok?"

He ignored her question, and continued to pace, his hands flicking out and touching everything; her books, her pictures; all the little knickknacks that littered the apartment.

"You… you're the strongest person I know. You've been through so much you've had to deal with so much… so much shit. And yet you're weak, by… cops' standards. You get emotionally involved and you're unable to separate yourself. Helping people is your addiction."

Stunned and hurt by his words, she felt anger rise in her. "What, so you're strong, I suppose? Walled up in that God damn head of yours all the time; you think that makes you strong, hiding in there?"

The fact that he totally disregarded her words made her even angrier; she wanted to hurt him the way he was hurting her. "If you think for a minute that that makes you 'stronger' than me, then you're full of shit. You're just scared. You think if you ever let anyone…"

"But it's all relative, isn't it?" he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Strength, to some people, is allowing emotions to be shown; to let others see you for who you really are. For others strength is the ability to close off those emotions; to keep them close and stay strong. People thrive on strength and stability."

"I don't," she snapped.

"Yes, you do. You would, if you had strength and stability."

"Jesus Christ, Grissom, what the hell is wrong with you?" Oh, she was good and mad now. He thought she didn't have strength. God damn him, she had strength! And stability… she winced a little at that one. Ok, so stability wasn't her strong suit, but hell, he could be pretty unstable at times. During the Debbie Marlin case he had…

"Did your mother love you?"

This was getting crazy. "Grissom, I don't really want to…"

"Did she love you?" He suddenly sounded angry as he spun on her and glared, and his blue eyes were icy.

She swallowed hard, and forced herself not to look away. "I… I don't know, Grissom." It hurt, to say it out loud; to admit that she wasn't sure her own mother had ever cared for her, let alone loved her. "Maybe."

His anger faded, and the mask settled into place again; nothingness. "My mother loved me. Did you know when I used to get beat up at school she would stand and hold me and rock me back and forth until I stopped crying? Even when I yelled at her to leave me alone, she wouldn't; she always stayed until I gave in."

Sara froze, stunned, staring unthinkingly at his empty face. "Excuse me?"

"She loved me; she told me every day, and showed me. Your mother… might have loved you."

"A fact I am well aware of," she said bitterly, "You don't need to rub it in." She was beginning to wonder if it had been a giant mistake to tell Grissom anything about herself. Why was he doing this to her?

"So why did you turn out better than me?"

At his words the absurdity of what was going on hit her again; of what she was letting him do to her. She shook her head. "Grissom, what's wrong? Why are you here?"

"Why am I unable to connect with anyone or trust anyone, when I was loved my whole life by her and told everyday that I was special? Why are you able to love people, and become involved in their lives when you were never allowed that kind of love? Why do you have people who would hold you when you cried and I have nobody?"

He was shaking; his body trembling as he stood, and she watched as his tears disappeared, melding with the rain that already dripped from his cheeks. This was not the Grissom she knew. This was not Grissom, period. Yes, he was hurting her with his words, and yes, she was angry that he had come here seemingly just for the purpose of hurting her, but looking at him she knew there was a reason. _Her _Grissom would never act this way without cause, because her Grissom could never be broken by anything that wasn't huge and painful.

_Why do you have people who would hold you when you cried and I have nobody?_

_Because you won't let anybody in, Grissom; because if someone put their arms around you, you would pull away and hide behind your walls. _But she didn't say that.

"Grissom, what's wrong?"

"Did you love your mother?"  
She tried not to let her pain show on her face as she attempted to answer. "I… I suppose I did."

"She didn't protect you, Sara." It seemed as though he was angry again, and she couldn't understand why; why he was being this way, or why she continued to answer these ludicrous questions.

"I know, but… she was still my mother."

For a moment he stood stiff and silent; imposing. "Did you ever tell her?"

She was getting fed up. "Grissom, this is not open for…"

"Did you tell her?" he said forcefully.

"I… yes, yes, I did. When things were good… when he managed to stop drinking for a couple of days and things were normal. I told her."

"I didn't."

"What?"

His voice was hoarse; as he spoke it broke and shook. "I didn't tell her I loved her. She was the emotional one after he left. After he left… I had to be the strong one. I talked to her… I let her tell me she loved me, but I didn't say it back. She loved me – she never hit me, never yelled at me, she never even glared at me, I don't think – and I've only said 'I love you' a handful of times in my whole life."

Another long moment of silence and the tears stopped, though it appeared that they had just run dry for the time being rather than stopping because of any effort to regain control on his part. The blankness returned; emptiness; nothingness. He was worn out and lost and defeated; unable to fight it. It pained her to see him this way.

"She's gone."

She was getting used to the confusion. "Who's gone, Grissom?"

"My mother."

For perhaps the hundredth time that night she was stunned. His mother had died. At least it explained things. His behaviour, for one: his inquiries about mothers and feelings, and his mention of how she had held him while he had cried; his anguish over never having said 'I love you' enough.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "When… when did she die?"

"Five hours ago."

Against her better judgement, she walked towards him, her eyes holding his. Slowly, like she was approaching a wild animal, she reached out a hand and touched his arm. As expected, he pulled back, but only physically; no strength left in that big, tired body to hide.

"Grissom, you have people who would hold you while you cried."

"She's gone."

"Grissom, baby… Grissom, I know," she murmured, attempting to comfort him. Luckily, he didn't appear to notice her slip of the tongue, though she reminded herself that he was guilty of the same crime. In the end it didn't matter, anyways. He was off on another tangent.

"I'm supposed to be strong; supposed to be a _leader. _I have to be in control, and I have to… I can't give in. I have to fight. I had to take care of her when he left, because… because she was lost without him for so long afterwards. I have to… I have to keep going even when I can't. I need to set the example. Nick, and Warrick, and Greg… they all… they all look up to me. Damn it, why can't they find someone else to look up to? Nicky… the bastard took Nicky and I had to be the strong one. Warrick could get mad, and you and Catherine could get emotional, but I had to be the one to save him in the end... I'm supposed to be strong. I need to be strong. But I can't… I can't… I'm not some… some God, Sara. I'm not a robot. I'm just a stupid human, like every other poor idiot in this world…"

His reference to how people assumed him to be unfeeling, and to Nick's abduction made her flinch. She remembered how she herself had accused him of being emotionless, so many years ago, it seemed like.

And then her thoughts turned to Nick, and she remembered how Grissom had been the one to calm the younger man when they had found him, and realized there were explosives under the box; he had been the only one thinking coherently enough to come up with a plan. And afterwards, when Nick had disappeared into the ambulance, he had looked so utterly lost and miserable; the way he looked now. Oh, God, this hurt.

"Grissom, you don't always have to be the strong one," she whispered fiercely. "Other people can do that for you sometimes. You don't always have to be that person."

"No… I have to…" the tears were there again, and he tried to blink them away but failed miserably. "I'm so tired, Sara," he whispered. "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of holding on."

She nodded, and reached out again. "It's ok, Grissom. You don't have to anymore."

"What if Nick had died? He never knew… and now she's already gone. Why didn't I ever tell her?"

"She knew, Gris, she knew."

"I should have told her."

He was so tired, she knew; it was in his eyes, and on his face, and in every muscle of his body, and she ached to just hold him and let him sleep until everything was better.

"Oh, Grissom."

He tilted his head, and wavered slightly. "I wish she was… was here to… hold me. She used to hold me. Did I tell you she used to hold me? I pretended to hate it. I thought she was babying me."  
She gave him what she hoped was a comforting smile, and dared to move close again. He was losing himself in his memories. "She knew, Grissom," she repeated. "She knew."

The tears were pouring down his face now, and she had to lean in close to hear his whispered confession.

"I loved her… I miss her. I miss her so much."

And without another thought she wrapped her arms around his soaked, exhausted form and let him rest his head on her shoulder. Even in his grief, he was strong and proud; he made no sound as he cried, and his body was still in her arms.

He made no move to hug her back, and she understood and held him tighter. At this moment, he had nothing to give; he only had the strength to take.

"I'm so tired," he murmured against her neck in defeat. "I can't do… this… anymore. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"So don't," she whispered in response, trying not to shiver as the coldness of his rain-soaked body seeped into her, chilling her.

"I have to…"

"No. No, you don't have to, because I'll do it for you." Silently, she vowed that she would do whatever it took to make sure he was ok.

He slipped, then; his eyes flickered closed, and he trembled against her. "Hold me," he mumbled, uncharacteristically giving her total control; his complete trust. "Just hold me."

"All right," she responded, her voice soft, and she tightened her grip and rocked ever so slightly. "I've got you. It's all right."

Five minutes later, when she sank onto her couch, Grissom was sound asleep in her arms.

"It's all right," she murmured again, more for her benefit than his, "I've got you. I'll hold you."

As she continued to rock, his upper body cradled awkwardly against her chest as he slept against her shoulder, she told herself she would give him a few minutes before she woke him and got him some dry clothes. Just ten minutes, she told herself. And then he could sleep as long as he needed to.

She would hold on to him for as long as she could; for him, she would be strong. And in the morning… well, in the morning, she would still be here with him.

The End


End file.
